Things We Don’t Talk About

When I was a little girl, my life was mixed up with the regular issues. I was born to a teenage mother who who wasn’t in a relationship with my Dad. It was the late 70’s though, so they were pressured or forced to marry. It didn’t last 3 years. We faced the normal stuff – being broke, single mom stuff, the back and forth between families. The shitty part is I was preyed upon. Maybe I was just too cute as a toddler. Maybe I was left unattended. Maybe people just trusted too much back then.

It happened. He wanted to know If I wanted to know what grown ups do. The rest is a blur or blocked. My years growing up were plagued with reoccurring nightmares and panic attacks that presented as auditory hallucinations that lasted until high school. (I was able to control them more by high school.) Physical child abuse came easily back then when your parents were full of trauma, rage, alcohol, and drugs.

Fortunately I had some surrogate family, and they taught me about the good stuff families can be and that saved me. I don’t blame my parents too much. We had happy times. I knew my parents loved me unconditionally. They did the best they could and with what they had to work with. They came from a time when no one wanted therapy. Everyone was too afraid of getting institutionalized to “speak their truth.” Therapy was really not encouraged- even if a person witnessed their parents death – still no. “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and carry on soldier. This ain’t no picnic.” So my parents struggle was a great deal worse than mine, and I am just glad I wasn’t born in the 60’s.

I spent most of my life without therapy trying to learn how to deal with the nightmares in my head from being a tiny human shown all about sex, drugs, and violence before I could ride a bike. A lot of time I was disassociated or picking between this mask or that one to put on. I didn’t even know what either of those two things meant to be able to deal with all of that. I don’t want to exaggerate, because this story is flatly the truth. Honestly, my dad did get me to see a counselor at my church briefly. He helped me to learn how to stop the waking nightmares – the panic attacks- the chanting world- by teaching me visualization techniques. He helped save me.

This story isn’t going to be about the child hood part of my life. I spent 17 years dealing with and processing that and trying to just get through school, with good grades, attempting to fit in socially, be a good Christian and Student, and reckon my broken relationship with my parents. I still was the bad kid- the wild child- the troubled one. Hmmm I wonder why- but nevertheless, I was really never good enough.

I stayed a virgin until I was 17. Sexual activity disgusted me, triggered me, and shamed me. I wanted to be one of the guys and unseen. Then the other side of me wanted to be pretty and fit in. It depended on the day or the character I was playing. I have no idea. It’s a blur. Then I was given Xanax in Paragould while my mom was asleep and I was hangin out with a friend, who I guess I shouldn’t have been alone with. I will name him, because he is dead and I don’t care. He accidentally shot himself. His name was Evan and he was 23. After a night of pot, Xanax, and MTV he wanted to make out and then he entered me and I begged him to stop and he didn’t. I know I cried and said no multiple times but he just kept on. It was really awful. I guess I was date raped. However, the sad part is I didn’t know this for over a decade after that. My mutual friends in Paragould labeled me a whore and were mad at me, because they felt I screwed over a boy my age that liked me. None of us realized I was literally preyed upon BY AN ADULT! Honestly, back in Texas it was worse. I had only told my mom and friends. I was in love with a best friend of mine in Texas, and he hated me after this. So I felt pretty disgusting and broken. I had attempted to save myself until my husband came. Like I said, I was pretty serious about being a good student of Christ. This made me feel like I screwed all of that up. I felt like my virginity was the only thing that was mine and I could control. I carried this like a weighted blanket wrapped around me. Yet I still managed and kept up with my senior year very busy and in all the clubs, and very stoned. It helped me to not die. I really wanted to die. I felt it would just be easier on everyone if I were dead, especially myself.

I stayed here though because my mother was always suicidal. I took it pretty seriously too, because her mom shot herself when she was 46. My half-brother is intellectually disabled and needed my mom, and me for the rest of our lives. I tried to take mine but took the wrong pills. I punked out on my suicide over and over. I would think of my brother and remember I was being an asshole, and cut or burn myself instead for punishment and put the killing me part away.

I think this part of the story deserves a break.

Just for bookmarks, it’s my Senior Year in Texas in the beginning of 1998. I turned 18 my senior year, on Dec 27 1997. In November of 1997 my best friend, Richard, and I got into a car wreck in Newport, AR while going to visit my mom and brother for Thanksgiving break. I totaled my Ford truck. Richard’s head went through the window, and he had a seizure. It was terrifying, but we lived, and I was grateful for life. I was so grateful. Richard and I both had a new lease on life. So coming into January and the last few months of my senior year at GPHS, I had a scholarship, some of the best friends I would ever know, and a new lease on life.

To be continued….